The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged to meet
the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.
And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you’ve been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens. For Time is
nothing if not amenable.
The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
— Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.
Elizabeth Bishop, “Shampoo”.
Azuma Makoto’s flower displays are nuts. Love this riot of intense colour!
Love the colour saturations of these 1920s and 1930s portraits by Donald M. Mattison and Achille Funi.
The colour magpie in me loves these abstract pieces from Helen Frankenthaler, and of course that very flirtatious shot of her in her studio too.
How brave would you feel with these tigers on your chest? Love this piece which Tessa Perlow did for herself (pic from her Instagram), but I also like this tranquil still life she posted:
Because how could you not feel happy looking at these, and we all need a bit of yellow to lift us through the SAD.
I actually went down an Internet rabbit hole looking for a magazine image I couldn’t find, but I found these instead. Images a mix of internet finds from Remodelista.com and Pinterest, and my own photos on the hoof.
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron-priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall
Myself to set foot
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
The first verse of “it was my thirtieth year to heaven” by Dylan Thomas.
Another staggering read from Persephone. It annoys me that their books are mainly on social media for their tasteful grey covers (example of an offending photo above by me) when the contents are so good. Their house has moved subtly from good middlebrow novels to much deeper, angrier works.
Earlier this year I read Into the Whirlwind, the memoir of a party member swept up in Stalin’s purges. This time it was Maman, what are we called now?, a poetic, yearning, angry, heart-rending diary of a French Jewish mother in occupied Paris and accompanying journalism from 1945, which I found even more striking and powerful than the diary.